


The Healer

by J_Antebellum



Series: The healer [1]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, hospital au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-26 18:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30109842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Antebellum/pseuds/J_Antebellum
Summary: Strike is an Advanced Paramedic Practitioner in London, who one day receives a very special patient, a survivor of domestic violence.
Relationships: Ilsa Herbert/Nick Herbert, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: The healer [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2215659
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	1. Bad blood

**Chapter 1:**

After a ten hour shift, Cormoran Strike was ready to drop dead on the hospital corridor. He was only thirty-four, but he felt ten years older every time he had such hard shifts, under the London storms that made the wind roar against his eardrums, with his car rushing through the busy avenues against the rain and against adversity to save someone's life time after time during the course of one, two, three, ten hours straight, without a break. It had been a particularly busy night. Three strokes, a child that fell in the Thames, luckily from a tiny boat, a car crash, an assault, a stabbing, a faint, and a few minor things.

Now, exhausted, he walked into the hospital in his dark green uniform with the red shoulder straps that identified him as an advanced paramedic practitioner. He was already sliding his feet across the floor, and it wasn't even that late, not even ten at night yet. He walked past white-coat doctors, nurses, and other NHS employees, his face stubbly and sullen, and his dark curls damp and short, and entered the lift. He got out a few storeys later, and walked into the consult of his friend and general practitioner, Doctor Nick Herbert.

“Can we go home?” he asked opening the door. Nick, with his sandy hair having receded a lot lately, partially due to genetics and partially due to the stress of the last months' terrorist attacks, sat at his desk with his white coat on, but looked up at the man who had been his best friend for the past eighteen years and smiled.

“Hello to you too, Oggy,” Nick said, standing up and grabbing his coat. “Yes, the wife awaits. Should I drop you off at Charlotte's?”

“Well yeah,” Strike agreed. Charlotte Campbell, his girlfriend for the past seventeen years, on-and-off, would become his wife in a matter of four months. However, their relationship was difficult, with all their friends and family against it, and after a particularly tough fight, Strike had spent the last three days at his friends Nick and Ilsa Herbert's house in Octavia Street, Wandsworth. Now, however, he felt ready to go back to his fiancée's luxurious loft in Chelsea.

No one had the energy for chatting much as they got into Nick's car and drove from the parking of the Royal London Hospital towards Chelsea. The radio echoed in the background, and Nick hummed along, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. He would become a father soon, just a couple months after Strike's wedding, as his wife, who had been Strike's best friend pretty much since the womb, was finally pregnant after years trying to conceive. They didn't know what they were having yet, but, as Strike had often joked, 'at least you know it's human'.

“Thought any names yet?” Strike asked tiredly, feeling that it was too impolite to show zero interest about the kid of someone who was driving him home in the middle of a rainstorm, after always offering his house to stay in the matter of a necessity.

“Cormoran will be the middle name if it's a boy, that's for sure,” Nick replied with an amused chuckle. Strike rolled eyes.

“Why would you hate that child so much?”

“Oh, come on, you know Ilsa loves your name and we're both pleased about honouring the baby's guardian and godfather.”

“We still have to discuss that part...”

“Don't be so hard, Oggy. What are you going to do about your fiancée?”

“Either pretend she doesn't exist and go to bed, or let her suck my dick if I don't fall asleep sooner,” Strike replied simply. Nick patted his shoulder, and said nothing.

Charlotte and Strike's constant fighting was a matter of jealousy and, mostly on Charlotte's part, craziness. The last fight had started when Charlotte had suddenly expressed a desire for children that she had always disliked, and had wanted to make a baby right then. Strike had refused, and she had started throwing things on him. But she shared the crazy family with him, and she made him laugh, and so he wanted her. He had to recognize that he had often been a shit boyfriend, often to the many girls that had come before and in-between Charlotte, so maybe this was his punishment, but he had to admit Charlotte sometimes drove him to madness.

“Here we are,” Nick said finally, stopping in front of the luxurious building. “Best of luck. You've got our keys if you want to call the wedding off and come back.”

“For the umpteenth time,” Strike said, unbuckling his seat-belt. “I am not calling my wedding off. I love her. She's the one. And you better accept it, because you're my best man.”

“I know mate,” Nick sighed, looking at him. “Ilsa and I just hate seeing you so... tortured.”

“Don't worry. Give Ilsa my love, and thanks for the ride,” Strike exited the vehicle and rushed under the rain the two steps into his building.

He entered the lift and arrived to the white door he had closed behind days before. He took a deep breath, and opened the door with his keys. He immediately filled his nostrils with Charlotte's strong perfume, sometimes too strong for his licking, and closed the door behind him. It was all neat, like he liked it, and warm, and he fantasized with a hot shower and dry, cotton pyjamas.

Strike walked inside and heard the shower running, so he walked directly towards the bathroom, and opened the door. There was a yelp, and Charlotte opened the curtain.

“Oh it's you!” she immediately grinned. “You scared me, Bluey, I didn't hear you.”

“I'm sorry,” said Strike. “Having a shower?” She nodded and opened the curtain completely. His pupils dilated seeing her dripping, sexy, model-like body.

“I might need some help washing my hair,” Charlotte said sensually, feigning innocence. Strike chuckled and removed his clothes, his hardness springing free, and revealing the prosthesis he had for lower right leg. He removed it and carefully got into the shower, with the help of Charlotte and the bar that had been installed inside.

In a matter of seconds they were entangled in kisses, moans, and declarations of eternal love that both made a conscious effort to believe.

“I've missed you.”

Half an hour later, Charlotte hugged Strike from behind while he prepared himself a sandwich with plenty of bacon. Strike, who felt more relaxed and cheerful now that he had been sexually pleased, caressed her hand across his chest.

“We made up for the days apart, didn't we?” Strike said, and grabbed a big bite of his sandwich.

“We did. How was work? Saved a lot of lives today?” Charlotte found his job, like most women in Strike's experience, one of the most attractive parts about him. She enjoyed romanticizing his job and seeing him like some sort of modern super-hero, and he enjoyed letting her see it that way, instead of seeing him as the guy who had, when he was just a normal paramedic, ran to drunk teenagers and held their hair back as they threw up all over the street, if not on himself. That said, it was true that, as an Advanced Paramedic Practitioner, he only took care of the most critical patients.

“I saved a few,” he said after he gulped, using a smug tone. He appreciated having women drooling after him, and he had more than once used his job to attract women. However, he'd never cheated on any of them. “How was... everything?”

Charlotte Campbell was a _socialité_ , which meant she didn't really had a job. Her parents were the former 'It girl' and model Tula Clermont, and the academic and broadcaster Anthony Campbell, who had died a few years previously. None of them liked Strike one bit, but since Charlotte hated her mother and idolized her father, Strike, who disliked both intensely, didn't mind much about their opinions. Charlotte's family was of high-society and fortunes, so Charlotte never really had to work in her life. However, she had studied English literature in Oxford, where they had met, and loved poetry, which Strike enjoyed learning and reading for her, who loved his deep voice. Nowadays, she was Dior's Ambassador, occasional model, and designer's muse, but she enjoyed more spending the money than earning it.

“All right,” Charlotte replied, her lips brushing against the back of his neck. He turned around, sandwich in one hand, and crashed his mayonnaise-soaked lips against hers for a moment. Charlotte licked the mayonnaise off her lips and caressed his nude chest, as he buried his free hand in her hair. “You know what I've decided?”

“What?”

“I want to become Mrs Charlotte Strike,” she said, surprising them both. Although Strike had never cared about whether she took his surname or not, and he had never really thought she would, he found himself pleased.

“Really?” she nodded.

“Can't wait to be identified as Mrs Cormoran Strike, London's sexiest paramedic,” she kissed him softly. He decided then that his stomach was satisfied enough and blindly left his sandwich on the kitchen counter, before taking his fiancée to bed, up in his muscular arms.

In the morning, he woke up to the pleasant feeling of a blow-job, the sun warming his naked chest, and no emergency alarms. For the intensity of the sun's warmth, he knew it was late morning, but he didn't care. He blindly buried his hand in Charlotte's hair, grabbing a fistful of it, and made the most of the experience until she had to run to wash her mouth. He retired to the shower, satisfied and in a cheerful mood, and met Charlotte again in the kitchen, as she prepared breakfast for them. This was a novelty; Strike was usually the cook in the house.

“I didn't think you'd know where I store the pans,” Strike joked lightly, hugging her from behind and kissing her cheek.

“Ha, ha,” Charlotte rolled eyes, but moved to kiss him. She was cooking bacon and eggs. “Like what you see?”

“Very much. You know I love three things the most in the world; beer, food, and you.”

“Romantic,” she snorted a laugh and Strike grinned, his mood great for the morning.

“I'll set the table.”

He had just finished his breakfast, and was leaning back on his chair, pleased and cupping his stomach, feeling full and complete, when Charlotte decided to tackle a topic she knew it would've been immediately rejected if Strike had been in a worse mood.

“I want us to have a baby.” She said firmly. Strike's eyes, that had closed pleasantly, opened wide and his expression tensed, glaring at her.

Suddenly it all made sense; the amount of sex, the pleasing him from early morning, letting him sleep late, making him his favourite breakfast, not speaking a word about how bacon made him fatter. She was making sure he'd be in the best possible mood.

“You want what?” he asked dryly.

“A baby. With you.”

“I thought we had an agreement. Seventeen years Charlotte, seventeen years in which you've depreciated my nephews since the moment they were born, as you've depreciated every single kid around us, seventeen years in which we both agreed we dislike taking care of children and we'd much rather be childless, free to walk nude around the house, fuck, party, travel, and anything we wanted, without poo on our hands and vomit on our neat marble floor. What bug has itched you now, all of the sudden?”

“Bluey, I don't know, I've changed my mind. Think of it for one second. A child with part my DNA and part yours, so it would be a beautiful child for sure, with wicked sense of humour, brains, love for literature, brave and adventurous. It would be a shame that with our incredible genetics, we didn't continue them creating at least one person with the best of us. I think we rejected the idea thinking it'd be as mundane of a child as any other, and we didn't realize if it had our DNAs, it was meant to be perfect!”

Strike glared at her sternly.

“A child is not a cool dog, Charlotte, we'd have it at least eighteen years, and they'd be babies too, babies we'd have to be responsible of and honestly, you've managed for every plant in this fucking flat to die, I hardly think you've got what it takes for a child.”

She scowled, raising her chin in a snobbish way.

“I'm full of love to give, and I've got money to pay for the best education, nannies, and everything else. We can still carry the life we wanted—,”

“Fucking heavens Charlotte,” Strike interrupted her. “You do think children are like dogs to exhibit in parties!”

“I'd be a great mother! If your Mum do it without a single penny and high most of the time—,”

“Don't,” Strike got up, glaring furiously at her, “say a word about my mother. You know nothing. And if you think I'd ever have a child, let alone with someone with the maturity and responsibility of a teaspoon, you're very fucking wrong.”

“Well that's a shame,” Charlotte stood up and looked coldly at him. “Because I'm pregnant.”

Strike felt his stomach knot and his blood run cold.

“No you're not.”

“Oh, yeah,” she laughed coldly. “Month and a half. Went to the doctor yesterday, friend of yours, she can confirm.”

Suddenly, Strike's pager beeped. He had a category 1 emergency in Albury Street, which meant it was life-threatening. He immediately stored Charlotte's problems in a separate brain box and rushed to put on his uniform and grab his bag. He wasn't supposed to start working until three, so he rushed to call the control room as well, and was informed there was shortage of APPs (Advanced Paramedic Practitioners) at the moment and that an ambulance was already there, but the paramedics were overwhelmed with the situation and had requested for an advanced paramedic, and he was the only one available, so he was to grab his car and get there ASAP.

“You're not just going to go now, aren't you?!” Charlotte shouted after him, as she saw him rush to the door with his car keys in hand.

“Yes.” he said simply.

“No you're not,” she stood in the threshold, blocking the access to the entry. “This is important.”

“No, someone's life is. Get off my way.”

“You can't touch me. I'm pregnant.” Charlotte looked coldly at him, conscious that every minute he wasn't in Albury Street, two standard paramedics were overwhelmed with a dying patient.

“I will hit you, Charlotte.”

“No you won't.” Strike glared at her, and in an instant had gripped her arm so strongly she yelped and his knuckles went white, and had pulled her away.

Before she could stop him, he was out.

  
  



	2. Assault

**Chapter 2:**

“Strike, what's the situation?!” Strike had run out of his car into an open house in front of which an ambulance was parked. He was carrying a bag and another of heavy equipment.

The house was a mess of things thrown all over the place, as if there had been a heavy argument. Two young paramedics knelt around a woman who lied unconscious on the floor.

“We think it's assault,” a paramedic said. “We were called in for a domestic fight, but when we arrived the door was wide open and only she is home. She was conscious and seemed to only be heavily bruised and scratched, she had shortness of breath so we put an oxygen mask, thinking she was suffering anxiety. Then we noticed one of her ribs is fractured and has punctured a lung, she's bleeding out inside and lost consciousness, but we lack the equipment to perform an emergency surgery, and we're afraid the rib will rip her lung if we move her.”

“You've done great. Where's the police?” Strike was already ripping the woman's blouse off and feeling where the bleeding was happening. The other paramedic kept administrating oxygen through a mask.

“We were too stressed to call them, we'll do it right now.”

As one of the paramedics called and the other helped with the oxygen, Strike gloved his hands and used a scalpel to make an incision on the woman's chest and place a chest-tube, while attempting to control the bleeding.

“What's her name?” Strike asked as he worked.

“Robin.”

“All right. Robin, I don't know if you can hear me,” Strike looked at the woman's pale, freckled face. She was ashen from the blood loss, and one of her eyes was purple, her lip cut and with dry blood. “I'm Cormoran, and I'm going to make sure you get to the hospital. You will be all right, I promise you.”

A few minutes later, two police patrols and a bigger ambulance parked in the street, and Strike helped other paramedics to get the patient into the biggest ambulance. Joined by another APP, Strike and her remained in the back of the hospital next to the stretcher, making sure their patient lived. Strike kept a steady hand in the open wound, controlling the bleeding, his eyes shooting to Robin's face frequently. He had to admit she was beautiful. Young, with long, wavy, strawberry-blonde hair and long, blondish eyelashes, but full of bruises and cuts. She had undoubtedly been hurt by someone's fist.

The neighbour, who had called them upon hearing noises in the house, was talking to the police outside and before entering the ambulance, Strike had overheard him telling the police Robin's husband, a man named Matthew Cunliffe that she had married just a month before, had been in the house, arguing with Robin. The neighbour knew them both from their house-warming party and from encounters around the area, and had identified Mr Cunliffe's voice, then had heard Robin scream, heard a commotion, and had been ready to go and see what was happening. He had left his house and seen Cunliffe run out of his house before he had entered, seen how Robin couldn't get up or breathe properly, and called emergency services.

Now, police would be looking for Mr Cunliffe. Strike had seen a photograph of the wedding, seen Robin next to the handsome young groom, right at the entry of the house, in a small frame on top of a small table, and as the ambulance drove them to Guy's Hospital, the closest one that had facilities advanced enough for the case.

Strike accompanied the stretcher inside, running despite his prosthetic leg beside it, shouting a summary of her condition to the surgeons that quickly rushed to attend them, having been warned of the situation. Robin was then taken straight into the theatre, and Strike went to wash his hands and prepared to go to his station to start his shift early, so since he had time he decided to pick up his car first. He grabbed a taxi and went back to Albury Street, where a police patrol remained, and walked towards the patrol to check for information.

“Hi, excuse me,” said Strike, calling a Met's attention. “I'm Cormoran Strike, I'm the advanced paramedic who was just here attending Mrs Cunliffe. I overheard you suspect the husband did it, and I was just wondering if that's been confirmed, so I can inform Mrs Cunliffe's doctor in case he shows up.”

“Hello. We're pretty sure, he's not responding to our calls, no one knows where he is, but don't worry, we already phoned her doctors at Guy's Hospital.”

“All right, well, thank you, have a good day.”

“You too.”

Strike got into his car, a dark moon blue Vauxhall Crossland. It had been a joint birthday present from his entire family after, at the age of thirty, his lower right leg had been blown-off in an explosion. He had been deeply depressed, and, used to always being on the move, had had a hard time adapting to being home, without moving, unable to drive, which he had always enjoyed, to travel, to do anything. So a year before, when his family and closest friends had surprised him with such a expensive gift -that he had insisted on paying at least half of afterwards- that was even adapted so he had the accelerator in the wheel and didn't have to use his right foot, although the pedal was still there for someone able-bodied to use, he had actually cried.

He loved his car. He loved the glass ceiling, so he could see the stars and the rain when he was in his home-town in Cornwall, and he loved that his car allowed for the back-seats to fold so he could sleep on a inflatable mattress in the back, looking at the stars, while he travelled for fun. And Charlotte and him had already made great use of that. She had, of course, paid a significant amount of the car, but he had returned her every penny already, feeling uneasy at the idea that his fiancée had paid his car.

Strike was just leaving the neighbourhood when something caught his attention. There was a man with sunglasses and a cap reading a newspaper sitting on a chair of a restaurant by the red-light he had stopped for. His knuckles were purple, bruised, and the little Strike could see of the man reminded him of Matthew Cunliffe. He turned right when the light was green, and parked his car, exited it, and approached Mr Cunliffe slowly.

“Hello,” Strike said. The man jumped, startled, and looked at Strike. His glasses had slid down his nose and Strike could spot a bruise on the eyebrow.

“Fuck! You have to scare people like that?” Strike raised his eyebrows.

“I'm Cormoran Strike, I'm a paramedic. I was wondering... I think your wife might've been assaulted and is in the hospital.”

“My wife?”

“Are you Robin Cunliffe's husband? She's young, long golden hair, maybe I confused you with someone else...”

Strike realized there were nail scratches on the man's neck, and his cheek was bruised. It was as if someone had tried to get him off them.

“You're mistaken. My wife is brunette.”

“Really?” for the brief moment the glasses had slid down before the man had put them up again, Strike had identified his face. “You know, that cheek looks like the bone might be fractured. You should see a doctor.”

“I will, thanks.”

“Also, your knuckles look bad, and that bruise on the eyebrow... if you suffered a hit, you could have a concussion.”

“Look, can you just go?” the man snapped. “If I wanted medical advice, I'd be in the hospital.”

“I would, but there is one problem. I saw you standing next to your bride, Robin Cunliffe, in a framed photo in your house in Albury Street, and the police is looking for you. There's a police station nearby, and I will leave you alone if you let me walk you to it.”

“I told you, you're confused...”

“I know what I saw,” Strike said sternly. “I'm a paramedic, I'm trained to be observant. Your wounds coincide with defensive wounds because Robin defended herself, your neighbour heard your voice as you shouted at her, and he saw you run from the scene. He described you to the police, and guess what; I overheard. You're wearing the clothes he described. Now, do us both a favour and come with me, don't make me force you.”

Matthew Cunliffe stood up slowly and looked at Strike in the eye. Strike saw him make a decision to run away before he had even started running, and just as Cunliffe raised a fist to Strike's face, he intercepted it with one hand, and punched him hard on the jaw. Cunliffe collapsed on the ground, in the agonizing pain of a broken jaw, and Strike knelt on his good knee, took off his belt, and expertly used it to tie the man's hands back as he groaned and sobbed. He looked up and saw several people had stopped, looking at him in shock, and a waiter stood as well.

“Call the police,” Strike roared at the waiter. “Tell them a paramedic has done a civilian arrest of Matthew Cunliffe, who has almost killed his wife. Tell them!”

An hour later, Strike sat at the Met Station, having called his boss to let him know he didn't know when he would be able to start his shift, because he was being questioned by the police after he had attended a woman who had suffered domestic violence. His boss was deeply unhappy, and Strike was made to wait for an inspector to talk with him.

“Bob!”

Strike looked up and grinned, seeing it was DI Richard Anstis. Anstis had been friends of Strike in the Army years before, and Strike had saved his life, so ever since Anstis had felt deeply in debt, having had three children since, the eldest of which was called Timothy Cormoran Anstis. The two hugged.

“Rick, I didn't know you were here! I thought you were in Liverpool!”

“Moved since, how've you been mate? You look great! How's Charlotte?”

“Very well. Did you get our wedding invitation?”

“Sure! Congrats again mate!”

The two slapped each other's backs and Strike felt like inviting him to a beer, but then remembered why he was there.

“So you're the cop they've sent to question me?” Strike asked, pleased.

“I overheard, asked if I could take over. I'm in homicides, but told them I know you, so... they figured I'd do a great job checking if you were lying. What happened, man? That dude's jaw is broken and he's arrested to a hospital bed for domestic violence?”

“That's Matthew Cunliffe. I attended his wife a few hours ago, she's fighting for her live at Guy's after what he did to her. At least police said he did it.”

“Yeah, we've proved his identity and my colleagues are pleased he was arrested. They've found his DNA under the woman's nails, coinciding with the nail scratches he's got across his neck, and his wounds coincide with hers. We're waiting for her to be out of surgery, a colleague is at the hospital waiting to interrogate her when it's possible. What my boss is a bit angry for is because you broke Cunliffe's jaw, and now he can't speak.”

“I might've done him a favour, he only babbled-out stupidities. I'm sorry though, I spotted him, knew the police was after him, but I wasn't going to call them unless I was sure, and for that I had to get really close. I tried to get him to turn himself in, but he attempted to punch me and...”

“Of course,” Anstis chuckled. “Well done mate, thank you. You can leave, why don't you and Charlotte come over for dinner on Saturday, uh?”

“If I'm not on call, sure, I'll tell her.”

Strike disliked Anstis' wife, Helen Anstis, who was gossiper and always stuck her nose where nobody called, and who insisted on calling him 'Cormy', which he hated and nobody else called him as. And Charlotte hated all his friends. However, given that Anstis always treated him with nice dinners, plenty of beers, and as if he was the king of the house, he accepted the invitation, wishing Charlotte would hate it, as a revenge for her stupid behaviour in the morning.

  
  



	3. History repeated

**Chapter 3:**

When Strike finished his shift, it was half past six in the morning. He didn't feel like going back home to Charlotte, so he drove to Guy's Hospital, to check on Robin Cunliffe. He normally didn't check on his patients once they weren't his patients anymore, but he felt a need to make sure this one was all right. His own mother, Leda Strike, had died after months of domestic violence, murdered at the hands of her husband, who wasn't Strike's father. She had had a boy, who had died as well, and who would otherwise be Strike's only brother in his mother's side. But they both had died and Strike and his little sister Lucy had gone to live with their maternal Uncle Ted, his wife and their daughters to their house in St. Mawes, Cornwall. Since Strike had been twenty then, he had only been there for a few months before joining the army for ten years.

Ever since, he felt particularly sensitive to cases of domestic violence, and every time he attended one -which happened way more often than he'd like- he found himself attached to the women, until they were discharged from the hospital and he knew they had started a divorce process and their husbands had been arrested. Less often, he had found himself accompanying men who had been beaten-up by their wives, but as they didn't remind him of his mother, he didn't feel as attached then.

Strike walked into the hospital hall and found the front desk. With his tired bulldog expression and the bags under his eyes, he had chosen not to change from his uniform, in hopes it would help him get access, instead of him getting feared for his looks.

“Good morning,” Strike said softly, knowing from experiences that receptionists in hospitals were to be treated with extreme kindness, if you were to persuade them for information. They were the hospital version of overprotective mothers.

“Good morning,” a big, brunette woman attended him. “How can I help you?”

“I'm Cormoran Strike, I'm an Advanced Paramedic Practitioner working for the NHS. Yesterday morning I took a patient into his hospital, and I was wondering if she had made it okay, she was in critical condition. I just want to know if she's fine.”

“All right... do you have any information about the patient?”

“Yes. Her name is Robin Cunliffe, she had been beaten-up and a rib had punctured one of her lungs. She's young, golden hair... probably younger than thirty.”

The woman nodded, typing in her computer, and after a few seconds, she nodded again.

“Robin Cunliffe, she had surgery yesterday and has been stable since. She was just taken from critical care to a room, and her parents are already with her, they just got here. She's still not out of the woods, they're watching for infections, seeing how she develops and all, but both her lungs are back to work, so that's good. Nurses check on her every hour, and the doctors very frequently as well.”

“Thank you so, so very much, it's so kind of you to inform me. I was just a bit anxious about her,” Strike said, knowing it was the kind of things that made women feel that he was such a kind, sweet man. It had its effect, and the woman smiled softly at him. “I don't want to abuse of your kindness, but would it be possible that you told me her room number? I'd feel even better if I could see her with my own eyes.”

“Uhm... well it's confidential, but...” the woman shrugged. “If I leave it on the screen while I turn around to check a folder, it's not really my fault if you turn the screen around a little and take a peek while I'm not looking.”

Strike grinned.

“Of course.”

The woman got up to walk to the cabinet behind her and Strike sneaked a peek of the screen and saw the room number. Feeling triumphant, he thanked her and rushed to the lifts. His leg was tired and starting to ache, but he shoved the thought to the back of his mind and made his way down large, white corridors, to Robin's room. By then it was past seven.

Strike hated the smell of hospitals, after he had spent so many months in them, and sometimes he even hated the smells of the ambulances, but he still did his job, because he felt useful doing it, he felt he made a real difference.

He stopped in front of her room's door, that had windows at both sides so the doctors could take a quick look all the time, and knocked on the door before opening it slowly, slightly. He was met with two older people, probably the parents, who looked about late fifties and had the looks of Robin here and there. He was brunette going white, and she had her daughter's same hair, with white parts, and bright blue-grey eyes.

“Hello,” Strike said quietly, not opening the door further. “I'm Cormoran Strike, a paramedic. Is this Robin Cunliffe's room?”

“Yes,” the man said with a thick Yorkshire accent. “We're her parents. Do you need anything?”

“I was just wondering if I could visit for a short time? I was the one to attend her and bring her here, and I've been worried about her.”

“Oh,” the woman's expression softened and she smiled, reaching to open the door further. “Of course, you saved her life! I'm Linda Ellacott, it's so nice to meet you.” She offered a hand, that Strike shook as he went in.

“I'm Michael,” said the man, doing the same. “Thank you so much.”

“Just doing my job. Oh, you're awake!” Strike grinned as he finally looked at the bed and saw Robin was lying awake, propelled up in pillows. She was still pale, and her eyes, same as her mother's, fixed on him. She looked weak. “I'm Cormoran. The receptionist told me you're doing better since I last saw you.”

“Yeah,” Robin's voice was hoarse and weak, but she managed a small smile, “I feel fine if I don't move. Are you going to bombard me with questions like the cops? My husband hit me. I don't have the energy for more.”

“No. I've just finished my shift and I couldn't get off my mind how bad you had looked, I was worried, so...” he shrugged. “I would've brought you flowers, but I thought you'd still be in the ICU. This is a fast improvement.”

“Our Robin's always been like that. Bounces back from every illness in the matter of hours,” Linda said, kissing her daughter's head.

“I only woke up a couple hours ago. It's freaking early, but...” Robin half-shrugged. “I don't like the idea of having doctors do stuff I can't see. Thank you for coming, by the way... I understand you'd rather be home after a whole night of work.”

“I'm an owl, it's fine,” Strike half-smiled. “And you know, your husband won't hurt you again. I'm sorry you had to go through such thing.”

“We were just arguing. He had never hit me before,” Robin confessed, speaking with an horizontal oxygen tube over her hairless moustache area. There was something in that man's dark green eyes that inspired her trust. “I had caught him for having an affair. I confronted him, and he got so angry... it was the one time he hit me. I don't understand how he punched so hard my rib went into my lung.”

“It can happen. Sometimes it's not like the hit directly sends the bone in, but it fractures, and as it's loose, it may move and brush against the lungs. The tissue can rupture very easily, you see?” Strike explained. “I'm what we call an Advanced Paramedic Practitioner, aka the guys who attend the worst of the worst, so I see it a lot. Most people aren't as lucky as you to live afterwards so, even if it's a shit situation, if I were you I'd focus on that little bright side.”

“So a few weeks ago, when the Houses of Parliament were attacked by terrorists... you were there?” Michael asked, full of curiosity.

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “I wasn't on call then, but I got called because it was such a big thing they wanted everyone out, try to prevent deaths. I've worked here since... 2013, more or less, so I've been at every big thing since.”

“We've been trying to convince Robin to head back to Masham in Yorkshire now, we live there,” Linda said. “Because London's not safe, with the terrorism.”

“Mum, God...” Robin murmured, done with the topic. Strike smiled at her, empathetic.

“My family's been insisting I leave London too, but I think now it's safer, security's improved. And if she was in Masham, professionals like me would have it harder to reach her.”

“You know Masham?” Robin asked, surprised he'd know it was a tiny place.

“Briefly” Strike said. “One time I holidayed in Ripon, and drove through Masham. Pretty place, lots of countryside and nice people.” He checked his watch. “I've got to go now, before I drop asleep on the floor,” he joked. “Can I visit you another time?”

“Sure,” Robin smiled. “Thank you so much, Cormoran.”

As Strike went back home, he was left with the feeling that this girl felt like a long-lost friend. She was just so nice, so warm, and even though Strike understood how shitty she must've been feeling, she had welcomed him with open arms.

Strike wasn't looking forward to his arrival home. The thoughts of the fight the morning before had been pushed away from his mind for all the hours he had been intensely working, but now they came back again, in his exhausted mind. What was he going to do if Charlotte was pregnant? Charlotte was funny, adventurous, less snobbish than other girls, and jaw-droppingly gorgeous, but he honestly couldn't think of any of them as parents. She had a malicious and manipulating side, she was sarcastic and sometimes, slightly insensitive, she craved drama like oxygen, was mentally unstable and had attempted to kill herself a bunch of times, or at least threatened until he had once forced her way into a mental facility. Strike knew all her dark sides and played around the edges, and somehow, he liked that. It was the same fascination that lured people into having snakes or lions as pets; the idea that someone so dark choose to love you, and was smooth and placid just for you made you feel at the top of the cliff, and full of adrenaline.

He found Charlotte was the only one with a past about as fucked as his, a worse family, someone who understood his darkness and who entertained him with the best sex one could desire, humour, someone who shared his sarcasm and irony, and who didn't try to change him. And thus, he loved her, with all of his heart. And he knew she loved him intensely, so he started thinking, what if we have a baby? Strike was mature and responsible, and he had pretty much fathered his sister, so he knew he could do it, with Nick, Ilsa and his family to help and teach him everything he didn't know, but what about Charlotte? He feared leaving her alone with their child so many hours while he worked. She wasn't a good cook, she hardly cleaned (they had instead hired service), she had no idea about dealing with kids, changing nappies, taking care of ill babies, and he wasn't sure she had any maternal instinct. She was, let's not forget, the biggest liar, pure mythomania, she lied with the same ease she drank water. She could be lying about the pregnancy, for all he knew, but what if he wasn't? She wasn't selfless. Strike had never known her for being one to drop everything for someone, unless that someone was him, would she be able to extend her love for him towards their baby and surprise everyone by becoming an exemplar mother, even when her own mother hadn't been? Or would he get home one day and find she'd drowned their child, let them drink wine, or smoked in front of them?

Strike smoke heavily as he drove, the ceiling open so that his car looked like a moving chimney. He was a heavy smoker and heavy drinker, but due to the nature of his job and his fiancée, he wasn't allowed to smoke or drink for most of the day. He could only enjoy drinking on his rare times off, and only smoke at home, if Charlotte, who was a social smoker, allowed, and with the windows always opened, which in winter was a no. If Strike hated something, was being cold.

Not quite knowing what to do about the baby yet, Strike entered their shared flat, half expecting to find his belongings in boxes, and in an instant, Charlotte was between his arms, hugging him intensely.

“Please tell me you will love it,” Charlotte pleaded into his ear. “Tell me you won't make me abort it.”

“I can't force you into something like that,” Strike said, hugging her back for a moment, before separating, locking the door, and taking her hand, walking her into their luxurious living room. They needed to talk. They sat on the sofa, and she looked sadly at him, which twisted his stomach. “I'm sorry I grabbed you so hard before, I was just anxious about our patient. She almost died, her husband had beaten her up and a rib had broken and punctured her lungs. As we were here, blood was pouring out of her lung into her abdominal cavity non-stop, and she was struggling to breathe.”

Charlotte looked softly at him and caressed his cheek. She knew how he felt about abused women.

“My poor Bluey...”

“Did I hurt you?” Strike asked, reaching for her arm and kissing where he had grabbed her too hard. “You all right?”

“I'm fine. We both are,” she added, patting her stomach.

“Right... tell me again how come you...” Strike pointed to her stomach. “When did you find out?”

“A couple days ago. I was feeling off and I went to my GP, who suspected I was pregnant and so I went to your friend Lisa, the obstetrician. She did an ultrasound and confirmed it. Six weeks, Bluey. I'll show you...” she got up and went to their bedroom, coming a few seconds later with a simple folder, that contained only one paper. Strike saw it was a screen-shot of the ultrasound. “It's healthy.”

Strike had enough training to know what he was looking at, and know it was authentic. He sighed and nodded.

“Do you really want to have a baby, or are you just trying to come to terms with it?” he asked gently.

“At first I hated it, but since you were at work, I had time to think on my own... Bluey, I think it'd be great. It's just one baby, not two, and it can be the only one. Think about it. We could install a nursery in the guest room, no one ever stays here anyway. We'll buy everything we need, read some books, prepare, and then when it's born, you can take a parental leave, right? You'll read them at night and I'll nurse them, and we'll take turns to attend them, change nappies and all. In the summer next year, we can take them to the beach in Cornwall, and in the winter, we can all play in the snow. I'm not saying it'll be easy, but I think we're smart enough to figure it out. And our child doesn't have to be like Lucy's boys, always in school, football and whatever. We can take it to fun trips, go to the park, put it in a good school and then something in the afternoons like music, uh? Your Mum would've liked to have a musician grandchild, wouldn't she?” Charlotte smiled softly at Strike, taking his hands in hers. Leda had been a groupie and a back-up singer. She had been great at learning any instrument, and so had Strike, who played the piano and the guitar, even if he no longer had time. “You can teach them music, and I'll teach them literature, and we'll take them to all the stuff we love, chances are they'll love it too. We don't have to be boring parents. And I still have time to modify the dress for the belly. I think our kid won't be like all those annoying kids we hate... ours can be our little best friend, someone so much like us, how can we not love it?”

Charlotte knew how to put things so they sounded great. She had made moving in together, which Strike had feared, sound great after he had lost his lower leg, and she had made marriage sound so great he had proposed. And now, he was letting her lure him into fatherhood. He nodded, thoughtful.

“Are you sure you don't want to give it up for adoption?”

“I'm sure. This is our kid. And since I had a shitty mother, I know all the things I shouldn't do.”

“All right,” Strike nodded, taking a deep breath. “We will have it. But I don't want to tell a word to anyone about this until you're showing a lot.” Charlotte cheered and fell into his arms, biting under his ear in a way that he knew, was about to lead them into heavy love-making.

  
  



End file.
